


A Promise Broken with a Vow

by AnontheNullifier



Series: Victorian Scarlet Vision [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Fluff and mild angst, Sequel, Some discussion of death involved, Technically Antebellum US AU, Wanda and Vision get married, incorporates Wanda's powers and Vision's vibranium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22147720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnontheNullifier/pseuds/AnontheNullifier
Summary: Three months after leaving New York and the lives they knew, a series of events leads Vision to decide it is finally time to break his promise to Tony and make a new one with Wanda.Sequel to An Auspice of Scarlet
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Series: Victorian Scarlet Vision [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594093
Comments: 35
Kudos: 35





	1. In which mud is the enemy and a butler is at a crossroads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Im_so_clumsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_so_clumsy/gifts), [BadgertheGnome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadgertheGnome/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The travelers make it to Council Bluffs after encountering more issues on their journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, if you have not read An Auspice of Scarlet, this is a continuation of that story. If you have read it but don’t remember how it ended, I’ll give a quick run down. 
> 
> AOS ending: Ultron is dead and the infusion pump Vision needs to live was destroyed in the Crystal Palace fire. Vision and Wanda (who are now engaged) are traveling with Helen and Amadeus to Seoul where Helen has an updated version of the infusion pump.
> 
> Second, this was meant to be a one shot and then it, unsurprisingly, kept getting longer and longer. I decided to just make it a chaptered story so I can better manage it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. My plan is to not care how self-indulgent it gets since these two deserve it.

_Dear Mr. Stark,_

_As I write to you, we are approaching the beginning of our third month. Due to the unexpected delays, which I have dutifully outlined in my prior letters, we are currently traversing through Iowa instead of being well into Nebraska. I worry each day what else will go wrong and how detrimental it will be to our timeline. A week ago we discovered the Lyons-Council Bluff line A, so heavily touted by the inhabitants of the prairie towns, does not actually exist yet. The stakes have been laid to mark its path, but going forward it appears as if the railroad is no longer a viable transport method. A thought that, for a time, was unfathomable. We rested for two days in Iowa City, long enough to map out a plan, purchase extra horses to haul the railcar over the rougher terrain, and I was able to find enough materials to reinforce the wheels so that we will not repeat the crisis in Springfield when the tracks uprooted. _

The line of the _d_ juts up with a violent shake of the car, no doubt due to a rock in the ground. Vision instinctively glances down towards Wanda, whose slumber is somehow unperturbed by the latest turbulence. He does, very gently, inch her head back up his thigh and tilt her shoulder several degrees so she does not roll off the seat when this inevitably happens again. Next he looks to Helen, who shares a commiserate, exasperated head shake, Amadeus’ driving skills are the least refined of the four of them, but the nonstop nature of their schedule means he still is in the rotation, even if he discovers more bumps in the road than is statistically likely to happen by chance. 

Vision returns to his letter, frowning at the assault of jagged ink on his otherwise pristine words (truthfully any writing in a moving vehicle is less than pristine, but he has become admirably skilled at it over the months). The intention is to spend up to two nights in Council Bluffs for planning the next leg of their journey and a reprieve from sleeping on the ground or in these seats, and also, fortuitously, a chance for him to rewrite his letter in a stationary setting. For now he keeps going, never sure how much depth to give or even if the letters ever make it to Tony. 

_For a time we did discuss rerouting to the south and taking the path through Nicaragua that Dr. Cho and Mr. Cho_

He pauses, wracking his memory on whether or not he has shared with Tony the surprising truth of the familial connection between Helen and her traveling companion. Of course he may never have mentioned it because, according to etiquette, gossip such as that is not meant to be shared via ink and parchment, even if Helen would not mind. Perhaps it is best to remain socially adroit despite the lack of refinement around them. Principles do matter regardless of environment.

_traversed to get to the Exhibition. Yet the seaward path is, as Dr. Cho so eloquently phrased it, months of being embraced by soggy air. An environment we all concurred was not ideal in my present state. Thus_

Now his _s_ squiggles along, lurching across the paper in time with the inertia that shoves their bodies to the left (his free hand holds Wanda’s shoulder to keep her steady), while Amadeus curses loudly and the horses release aggrieved whinnies. “Amadeus,” Helen has slid her window open and is hanging half out of it as she speaks with their driver in JoseonB. Even if the words are incomprehensible to him (if Wanda was awake she would help translate some of it, having shown an astounding predilection towards language acquisition), the tone is unmistakably reproachful. 

In his lap, Wanda begins to stir. Immediately he runs his hand gently along her temple, easing her back into a steady sleep. 

“Apparently,” Helen returns to her seat, tugging her boots on over the hems of her trousers, “we’re stuck in mud.”

An aggravatingly common experience since losing the rails. Vision nods at the information before delicately cupping Wanda’s head, even more delicately lifting it, and then he slides out of the seat, grabs his coat from the bench across from them, and bunches it under Wanda’s ear. He waits six seconds, the average time it takes for Wanda to rouse if he fails at a seamless transfer. At seven seconds she is still blissfully and beautifully at peace. 

Vision pulls on his own boots, a shoe choice that was rare at the manor but has become the sole option in the unkempt wilderness where puddles are hidden by tall, swaying grass and unassuming, even idyllic scenes, are frequently rife with moist unpleasantness. It is, per usual, the smartest choice, the squelch of leather sinking into mud greeting him as soon as he steps out of the train car. 

“He says he didn’t see it.” The it that Amadeus-by-way-of-Helen is referring to is a sizable sinkhole that appears to be devouring the left rear wheel. It is likely a truthful claim, the knee high grass of the area a perfect screen for most disasters. 

Vision walks around the vehicle, eyeing the various junctions where their car interacts with the ground. When he reaches the offending wheel, he squats down, steadying himself with the handhold affixed to the side of the car and ignoring the unhappy grind of the steel fasteners in his joints. 

The wheel is stuck, as they already knew. A few careful and serious tugs confirms that it is very stuck, the mud forming a viscous vacuum around the wood where every application of shear stress seems to increase the overall viscosity. Scientifically fascinating albeit disheartening. Back near Wheeling, after a surprise deluge, they were able to apply friction to escape. That, however, is unlikely to work now given how deep the wheel has already sunk, and how it keeps settling in with each pull of the horses. Vision stands, allowing the wince at the sharp pain in his hip to happen freely since no one else is next to him. 

At least he thought he was alone. “You said it wasn’t bothering you.” Vision does his best not to flinch at the comment, both from surprise and shame, and turns to face the accusation, finding Helen’s arms crossed and face serious.

Bothering is subjective. Every day, every hour, every minute, his body bothers him, stuck in a continuous fight against the unnatural exoskeleton riveted into his bones. There is never a moment where it is not bothersome, but sometimes it is less so, like when he’s deep in conversation with Wanda, all of his attention on her words and the way she forms each syllable and the small touches of her fingers to his hand when making an important or jocular point. Or when he’s working, the singular joy of butlering meant his day was scheduled down to the millisecond with menial tasks to keep his body and mind busy. When distracted, he can pretend, for a brief time, his discomfort is nonexistent, that he is just a normal man. What Helen is trying to imply is that his hip has gone beyond the typical level of bothering into something more worrisome. A fair and not wholly incorrect conclusion. “I believe the way I was seated today has aggravated it.” He knows it is a weak response, as does Helen’s increasingly dour glare. 

“When we get to the town, we’re doing a full check.” The _understood?_ is silently implied, which means he provides an equally wordless affirming nod. “Good. Now what do we do about this?”

He shifts his mind back to the wheel. Friction is out. If they had an acceptable item to use as a lever, it could work, but nothing they have on the train, at least without dismantling the vehicle, is sturdy enough or long enough to apply the necessary force needed. If they were not already so far behind in their schedule (at least two weeks, by his calculations), Vision could piece together some sort of gear based lift, or a simple hydraulic process, no more complicated than what he constructed in his youth. Yet it would require dismantling and then remantling the inner workings of the car, a far too timely process. “We could attempt to utilize vector forces?” 

“That could work.”

Her quick agreement creates a momentary comfort at the potential success through empiricism. What they need now is a rope and an anchor point far enough in front of the vehicle to provide sufficient resistance for the application of a perpendicular force. Unfortunately the only thing around them is a vast expanse of swaying grass leading to a horizon of small hills and even more lowly vegetation. “I am not certain we have anything sturdy enough to utilize as an anchor.” 

Helen accepts this the way she does any hurdle to scientific advancement, with a shrug and an increased concentration on finding an alternative solution. “I’ll go check the car for anything we could use, we might still have spikes.”

“Thank you.” 

While Helen is in the railcar, Vision walks a line from the front of the car, careful not to aggravate the already on edge horses that are now released from their harness and grazing happily. Each muddy boot lands with the heel just kissing the toe of his other foot until he is roughly sixteen feet away. He turns back towards the conundrum of the day, mouth falling as his mind works through the calculations, which is a difficult matter given he does not have enough data. What will be their anchor? How much tension exists in their rope? He cannot even recall how long their rope is, although he is certain it is likely not long enough to reach him here, an unfortunate thought given he is not sure even this distance is enough to help produce the necessary Newtons to remove the wheel from the mud. Even if it did work, they need a sufficient perpendicular force. The horses are the strongest, but also the least reliable, especially now that Amadeus is letting them enjoy a bit of downtime and they tend to get obstinate when it is time to move again. 

All of this is wrong anyway, he should be assessing this from the end closest to the wheel. So Vision walks back, this time with his usual gait, no longer needing to measure the distance. It’s as he moves towards the back of the railcar that a voice surprises him, “Try to stay optimistic, Vizh.”

“Wanda, I-” the tilt of her lips matches the lightness of her admonishment, his worry lessening slightly. “I hope we did not wake you.”

The pressure of Wanda’s hand running along the edge of his spinal plate immediately calms his mind, a power he still doesn’t fully comprehend but appreciates nonetheless. “Helen woke me up, said you needed some help.”

A correct assessment. “Yes.” Her hand moves along an ovoid path, soothing away the displeasure in his voice until it falls somewhere around incredulity. “I am simply astounded and mortified at the sheer number of vehicular issues we have encountered and we still have all that,” Wanda follows his voice before he even raises a hand towards the neverending sea of prairie ahead of them, “and more to traverse until…”

“We’ll be fine.” Wanda flashes him a smile imbued with surety, one that sends a jagged jolt along the metal pathways of his body, her confidence growing exponentially since they waved farewell to Tony, this woman remarkably and gloriously at home in their current state of survivalism and independence. “You have me.” 

The press of her lips to his cheek renders his mind and body still, enraptured at the sway of her hips, which is made all the more prominent by her adopting the rational dressC standard set by Helen. Vision’s eyes follow as she circles the railcar, hands dancing back and forth in front of her waist, testing the strength of the predicament. Once satisfied, Wanda steps several feet back, heels spread to just past the width of her shoulders, her left foot in front of her right, and then her arms weave a spell through the air, the scarlet energy shimmering, sending prismatic waves along her skin and braided hair. There is never any doubt in his mind nor heart at how much he loves her, but he is always amazed at how much more he loves her every day, particularly when he can witness her in such a free and powerful state. 

Creaking emanates from the wheels as they’re loosened from the mud, rising up into the air with a bend of her knees and deep concentration dragging her features down into a scowl. It is awe inspiring to witness this, and yet, it isn’t even her most impressive feat. Around La Fayette a bridge over the Wabash had washed away and Wanda, single-handedly, was able to get them across. Truthfully, if not for Wanda and her abilities they likely would never stand any chance of reaching their goal. 

The car settles onto dry land and Wanda wipes her hands, turning towards him with a prideful arc on her mouth. His body responds immediately and instinctively, all else fleeing from his mind except her. Eight steps and his arms can wrap around her waist, pulling her towards him, the laugh eeking out of her mouth echoing inside of his as he kisses her. “You,” he pulls back to look at her, amused and fascinated by the dissipating red in her irises, “are extraordinary.”

“Are you,” the walk of her fingers up his chest matches the feisty pace of her words, “trying to woo me?”

He strives to make his, “Always,” forthright while mirroring her tone. “Have I been successful—”

“We’re losing light.” Helen’s sensible interruption shatters the moment and Wanda ends their physical connection with a sly wink that leaves him a bit shallow breathed. “Do you think we’ll actually make it before sundown?”

It’s a fair question, the sun inching ever closer to the horizon. Night travel in their current railroadless condition is far too dangerous, the last broken axle they experienced delayed them four days. If, however, they were within an hour of the town, he could easily argue the benefits of pushing onward. “Well,” Vision removes his once pristine map from the pocket of his trousers, bothered a bit at the frayed edges and the way the ink is starting to crack where the creases are located. He bends his index finger so that he can use the distance between his knuckles to measure out their trajectory, “Perhaps four miles.” 

“Assuming we keep our normal pace, we should get in not long after dusk.”

Wanda’s cheery, “That’s not bad,” counters the dolefulness of Helen’s calculations. “Vizh you said there was a hotel?”

“Um,” his hand dives into the pocket sewn inside the breast of his waistcoat, removing the city guide he bought for a cent in Iowa City. The legend at the bottom is numerically organized while the map is numbered in a haphazard fashion, an aggravating design decision, but eventually he finds the answer. “There are two.”

Wanda squeezes his bicep in gratitude for the information. “Two hotels which means a better chance at separate rooms,” this garners Vision’s attention, the switch from living in a spacious manor with only one other person to a cramped railcar has been trying, at times, “and a bathhouse,” now Helen seems interested though not convinced. Wanda adds, “I’ll drive,” as one last push for them to continue. 

Comfort, though truly wonderful, isn’t, to Vision at least, a worthy opponent to remove the preventative logic of making camp for the night and avoiding another broken part, even if he desperately wants to sleep in a bed instead of the benches in the car. “I believe—“

“As long as you drive, I think we try it.” Helen provides her opinion and Vision shutters his own, willing to trust them in this risk. 

  
  


The trust is earned tenfold, a hundredfold really, as Vision sits in a warm, dry, moderately cushy room at the City Hotel, able to stretch his legs and sit at a desk that does not jolt and vibrate. Wanda even managed to negotiate with the proprietor a stable stall for the horses (even if their railcar is across town near the wagon trains), aid in carrying their belongings to the rooms, and a reduction in the rate from one dollar to seventy five cents a night on the basis that they were renting two rooms and the competitor two doors down (the not nearly as cushy Robinson HotelD) charges fifty cents a night. Vision would never have had the tenacity to push for the accommodations, always believing that prices and terms are a balanced decision between fairness to the customer and the economic needs of the business. Wanda insists this increases the likelihood of him being swindled, which may be true, hence why she accompanies him anytime they need to procure a larger purchase. Even if she haggles further than he is often comfortable, he might be willing to tentatively accept some of her methods as more useful than his own.

There is a knock at the door and Vision gathers a handful of coins before he answers, pleased and appreciative of the ill-polished silver cloches filling a tray in the server’s hand. “Thank you.” He grabs the tray from the man, the waft of minced venison pies forcing him to feel his hunger more acutely, and then offers the service tip, something he knows is not common outside the upper most echelon of society, and even there it is normally a bribe, but he has always viewed it as a chance to show true gratitude and so he refuses to eschew the custom, even now that they are far removed from Mr. Stark’s lifestyle. 

The man, who might only be a year or two younger than Vision, stares agape at the money. He provides an overzealous, “Have a good night, sir,” and scurries away, seemingly fearful Vision will reconsider the payment. 

Vision places the tray on the oaken desk, focusing less on the generous tip and more so on the word _Sir_. It’s one Vision hasn’t really utilized more than a handful of times since leaving New York, having transitioned from the individual for whom _Sir_ must always be on the tip of his tongue to the eponymous _Sir_. It is an odd feeling, one he hasn’t really accepted with the transition from butler to refined traveler. It doesn’t help that the standing mirror reflects back at him the butler, with a tad more mud speckling the fabric around his knees and the shirt a less brilliant white, all of it with more wrinkles than he prefers, a side effect of sitting all day in a train car. He doesn’t truly know this slightly unkempt man, the closest approximation was back at university, but that man, one who had not fully embraced waistcoats or bespoked suits, lacked the heaviness in the eyes and the ever present cogitations about the betrayal of his body. 

No, Victor died a long time ago and the butler cowl was hung up three months prior. This is someone new. Someone he is still discovering.

Vision’s mind transfers to more practical matters, sliding his gloves off, first the right and then the left, and placing them one on top of the other on the desk. His joints crackle with each flex of his fingers. Next he shrugs out of the coat, hanging it gently on the back of the desk chair, a bit annoyed at the lack of hangers in the room for more civilized clothing care. He turns towards the mirror again to fiddle with the bowtie, eyes staring firmly at his trembling fingers, wordlessly encouraging them to loosen the perfectly tensioned knot. A mild tug undoes it, the tie falling limp along his chest, slithering from his shoulders with a second tug. He lays the fabric next to the gloves, smoothing the wrinkles out with his right hand. Vision removes the various papers from his pockets, the “railroad” map from his trousers, the town map from his waistcoat, and then his hand dives into the inside pocket of his coat, hanging on the chair, and retrieves a pile of folded parchment tied together with string. All of these he arranges next to the tie. 

He removes the waistcoat and lays it over the bedpost, not happy with the location, vowing to move it before they turn in for the evening. Then he sits, lungs expanding a bit more than usual, which he blames on the steep, narrow staircase to the room. When he tries to bring his left foot up, a searing sharpness jabs at his hip and immediately he drops his leg, the wooden heel of his shoe knocking against the ground. An aggrieved “Brilliant,” falls from his lips. 

This started twelve and a half days ago. Not all at once, it was gradual, as it usually is, barring a catastrophe. One day it’s an iota more of pressure when he bends over and then a few days later it begins to warm into an ache, and then comes the shooting pain when he moves his leg more than fifteen degrees, all the way up until it gets feverish, locked in place, a little putrid, and well, deadly. Five years, however, has given him an understanding of the typical progression and this isn’t bad yet, really, this is typically a one month post treatment feeling, so the fact they are three months on the road means he may still last the journey, assuming nothing happens to hasten the descent of his bodily functioning. Unfortunately he has found the environment is far more difficult to control than at the manor, an understandable finding given nature is gorgeously cantankerous. 

None of this is productive. All he wants to do is get his shoe off, a simple task that does not require musing on the longevity of his hip. It’s been a tactic all his life to narrow down enormous situations to easily attainable steps. Right now it is to finish undressing and then, well, then perhaps he can contemplate the philosophical underpinnings of his life. He uses the toe of his right shoe to ease the heel of his left down, a small kick sending his loafer between the mirror and Wanda’s carpetbag. He repeats this with the other shoe and decides, for now, to just ignore his socks because that is a trickier obstacle. 

Vision leans back in the chair, exhaling away his exhaustion and frustrations. It has been a long day and it has taken its toll. There is nothing more insidious than that, or so he tries to convince himself. But then his eyes slide to the papers on the desk and soon his mind follows, untying the string and carefully opening the papers. On top is his letter to Mr. Stark, marred by rivers of wild ink. Vision places it to the side and separates the other two sheets into parallel existences. He runs his hands over the documents, easing them into flatness as best he can before he uses the cheeky terrier shaped paper weights provided by the hotel to hold them down. One of the documents is covered in his handwriting while the other is only half full. Vision tests out the hotel’s inkwell and pen on a spare corner of Mr. Stark’s letter. Happy with the result, he begins to continue copying over the contents of the full document. 

_As for my shares in Stark Industries, three quarters will be returned to Anthony Stark while one quarter will be transferred to the esteemed medical doctor, Helen Cho, to provide yearly funding for new scientific pursuits._

_To Wanda Maximoff, my_

Vision left this blank on the original, not certain what to place, whether it is betrothed, beloved, or, maybe, before this document ever needs to be executed, it will be something else. He decides it should remain an enigma, easily filled in depending on the state of their relationship should Wanda ever need to use this. 

_To Wanda Maximoff, my ________ , I leave everything else. This includes the entirety of my savings, the homestead in Normanskill, all patents, innovations, and intellectual property that may be sold or given to other parties at her discretion, my collection of books, and any heirlooms that may currently exist or be found for the Williams family._

When he attempted to discuss this with Wanda last month, she was less than enthused, understandably so, it is, as Mr. Stark would bumptiously point out, a morbsyE topic, though an essential one. Their strained conversation did confirm his supposition that she wanted nothing to do with Stark Industries. That was as far as they got. Wanda is a brickyF and industrious survivalist, having been through far worse in her life than his demise would bring. If he does die on this trip, she will eventually move on, will live a long, extraordinary life. What he wishes to achieve in leaving her the wealth he has amassed as Mr. Stark’s butler, is to provide some financial standing for her to do whatever she may want to accomplish without having to worry about affording food or a place to live. Not that he wishes for that to be the result, it would be far preferable to be by her side and watch her take on the world. Regardless, he believes it best to leave a little extra space in case he thinks of any other assets that may have slipped his mind. 

It took him far more time to determine how to repay Mr. Stark’s kindness and support, only deciding it the other day while speaking to Helen about her current manuscript. 

_To Anthony Stark I give my full permission to use my identity, life, body, and experiences in published papers that would encourage the scientific advancement of medical technology._

“Hey Vizh,” Wanda’s voice catches his ear right before the creak of the door reaches him.

Vision stands immediately, heart racing at her sudden entrance, his hands working to stack the wills and slide them to the side. He pivots towards the door, lips always lifting at the sight of his beloved, “Let me help you.”

“I’m okay.” Scarlet dances along her hands as she shuts and locks the door without physically touching it, a steaming jug wrapped in ivory cloth clutched between her hands. “Weren’t you supposed to be ready once I got back?”

“I-” he glances down at his shirt, cheeks forming a glow at getting distracted from his task, “Yes, my apologies.” His fingers begin to fiddle with the tortoise shell buttons, sliding them out in a steady pattern while he watches Wanda pour the water into a metal basin next to the mirror. Her hair isn’t soaking, but it is still wet enough that the fabric near the nape of her neck is a shade darker than the rest of her lilac housecoat. “How was your bath?” 

Wanda flashes him an engaging smile, “Fantastic. I feel so much better.” 

“Wonderful.”

He continues to watch her move through the room as he undresses, awed at the way her confidence makes it seem like this has been her house since childhood, her hands sure as she finds everything they need. Then she pauses, just for a moment, a quizzical tilt of her head in his direction. “What are you looking so spoonyG about?”

“You.” The exaggerated roll of her eyes doesn’t dampen the effect of her self-conscious smirk. Vision closes the four feet between them, lips curving to match the crescent moon of her mouth as his hands run along her cheeks, “You are amazing.” 

“Oh?”

“Yes,” his thumb brushes a strand of hair slicked to her forehead, “and you look just like you did the day we first met, well,” his hands travel down her arms, encouraged by the gleam in her eyes, “mostly, far less distressed and irate at the moment.” This receives a breathy laugh. “You know I believed I was meeting a naiadH that day.” 

Her nose crinkles at the comparison, “You got a witch instead.”

“Much preferable.” 

Wanda traces the plate on his sternum as she talks, “I know you’re trying to put this off.”

He attempts to play aloof, mainly because he still is unable to logically explain his hesitation, “Would you like to eat first, before it gets cold?” 

This gets him his second eye roll of the night and if he can manage two more it will be a personal best. “Just take your gas pipesI and drawers off before the water gets cold.” With a pat to his chest, she turns away and Vision complies, a bit haltingly on the left leg, but he is successful. Once done, he waits, standing in the middle of the room, fingers drumming against the vibranium rod along his thigh, comforted slightly by the fact she remains facing away from him. A towel, framed in a scarlet aura, floats in front of him followed closely by the understanding and comforting tone of Wanda’s, “You ready?” 

Vision sits in the desk chair, his side leaned against the back of it to allow the majority of his body to be available, and then he lays the towel on his lap, for some reason still insisting on an ounce of modesty even though the sight is not a mystery to Wanda. “I suppose.” 

“Great.” With time they have established a protocol. First, Wanda sets the basin of water on a small footstool, placing it in a location where they can both reach without much trouble. Next, well in a slight change of protocol she lightly shoves his shoulder and then tosses his coat onto the bed, and then she hands him a sponge, keeping one in her own hand. Lastly, she enters his mind, a burst of affection always filling his body at the way it feels to not be alone, her presence like the sunshine on a spring day, chasing away any chill from the wind. The practicality is important, or so they have discovered in pursuing their life together, any time his well-being is involved, her concerns are eased if she can feel his pain and his experience, that way she can adapt before he needs to tell her to. It is more than he ever expected or would have asked, and it is enormously appreciated. 

Carefully they begin, the tingle of her powers forming a shield over his vibranium as he gently and studiously dabs the warm, sudsy water along the skin of his chest and arms while Wanda does the same to his back. This routine is one that formed, not naturally, per se, but gradually with each stop in various towns. He was petrified the first time she came into their room as he bathed, uncomfortable at the openness of his body in front of her, having relied on the shadows of the room and sheets of the bed to mask the full effect of his injuries the two times they’d been intimate by that point. Unsurprisingly, she handled it the way she has since they first talked after the fateful séance, with aplomb and respect, never once flinching at the raised, discolored scars or the unpleasant tinny waft of his exoskeleton. To be frank, it has actually become easier with Wanda’s help, her powers allowing more leeway in the inevitable drips that form when the sponge has not fully been wrung out, making the whole process a bit more soothing than perilous. 

Vision looks at the mirror as he dips and twists the sponge, eyes consciously not staring at himself, but instead at Wanda, the tip of her tongue peeking out of her lips as she works on his shoulder blades. At one point she brushes something from his shoulder and he can’t stop from noticing the contrast of her skin to his, a naiad soothing a dying duck in a thunderstormG. Immediately her eyes snap up and he sheepishly meets her glare, usually far more careful at controlling disparaging thoughts when she is present in his mind. “I am...” 

“Gorgeous.” He’s unable to look away as she places her lips to his skin, a challenge rippling through her actions. Her kiss lingers for several seconds to prove the point of his idiocy all while sending a tingle down his arm, erasing the thought he was trying to convey. “Just like a swan.”

He scoffs, mock (mostly) offense stitched into each syllable, “I’d rather be a dying duck than a vile beast.”

“Why don’t you tell me more about it, so I can understand this fascinating preference.”

No amount of coquettish charm nor slow, sensual tracing of his neck will break his resolve on this topic. Other topics, yes, he is weak to her spells, but not this one. Vision steels his features, a tiny shake of his head accompanying his response. “Never. It was not a proud time in my life.”

A third eye roll and flick of scarlet to his ear, “Fine.” Then her face shifts into seriousness, “You are stunning though.” 

Vision mimics her, staring at the two of them in the mirror. Unlike her, he struggles to find evidence in support of her opinion, particularly when he can compare himself to the woman leaning on his shoulder, can remember the reactions of the crowd of objective onlookers who saw him. He is also aware that if he outright denies it that her wrath will follow, Wanda the greatest champion of his ego and self worth. “I suppose my eyes are a striking enough color.” 

Wanda frowns, eyes narrowing into a bellicose defiance aimed at his logic. “For being quite a dizzyJ, you are so often a wooden spoonK.”

Pacification now means they can stop assessing the glaring imperfections of his industrial physique, so he imbues his voice with an honest cheerfulness. “It is a good thing I have you to straighten me out.” The next kiss she gives him is shorter but happier, a flutter on his neck that is replaced by the dampness of the sponge as she continues in a pleased silence. 

“You know,” he spent so many of the last five years pretending as if he never existed before Mr. Stark brought him to the states, that it is peculiar to him each time a memory emerges from that past life, “my last year at university they introduced the wooden spoon award and it was everyone’s fear that they would win it.” Wanda’s eyes flick up to meet his for a second, a sign of interest before she stares down at his back. “I studied so hard to ensure I would not receive it.”

“Did you get it?” 

Suddenly he remembers why he never dallies with the past, his heart dropping several inches as he answers her question, “I, um, actually never got to take the test…” he stops, certain the implication is clear. 

A splash fills the tenuous silence between them. His muscles twitch at the unexpected pressure of Wanda’s body against his back, her arms draping over his shoulders and her face nuzzling into the crook of his neck with a soft, “Vizh.” 

Vision watches her reflection, notes the creases forming around her mouth and the sadness in her eyes, and then guilt blooms deep in his chest for bringing down the mood in the room yet again. He lifts his free hand and envelops her own with a gentle squeeze. Perhaps a new topic might lift the spirits. “I was speaking with the proprietor while they were setting up the rooms and he mentioned a shop down the road where we might find a suitable mystic tablecloth.”

For a moment he expects to win the wooden spoon, her eyes exasperated until she shifts with his distraction, kissing his neck before she stands up. “We can look at it in the morning.” She dips the sponge, wringing it out with her powers. “I want to set up a table near the wagons tomorrow.”

“It does seem a promising location.” She hums in agreement, dipping out of view of the mirror to reach his lower back. “The proprietor also informed me that the trading post has numerous supplies and maps for the next part of the journey.”

Her disbelief rises up and over his shoulder. “More maps?”

In Vision’s opinion, one can never have too many maps, each one adding a slightly different view of an area depending on if it concerns roadways, railways, geologic structures, political and financial resources and leaders, or his favorite, topographical details. He currently has four for Iowa alone. “Yes, it is important to have a full grasp of the terrain,” his sponge dabs a bit more aggressively at his thigh as he emphasizes the importance of his mapping knowledge in the face of his betrothed’s skepticism, “plus all of our detailed maps end here, so it is vital we purchase more.”

Wanda pops back into view, “Want to do your hair or stand and lose the towel?” 

“Um…” It is factual that the question was said with utmost sincerity and not a lick of sauciness, yet his heart always beats a touch faster whenever the air of suggestion can be found in her words. This mixture of lust with the demoralization of even needing help with bathing is a concoction of emotions he has yet to grasp and navigate, often leaving him indecisive and tongue tied. “Hair?”

“Okay, sit back,” his body complies with the guidance of her hands, bringing his back to the cold slats of the chair. Wanda steps away long enough to retrieve the wash basin and move it behind the chair. “You should only get one map this time.”

Mixed emotions are sloughed away immediately, “That is preposterous, two is the bare minimum.”

“They aren’t even right most of the time.”

A fair point that she has made every single time they have this light argument and a point that only underscores the purchase and use of multiple maps. “That is precisely why I have so many.” Wanda drapes a rose colored towel around his neck, the ends hanging down low enough to brush the tip of his sternum plate. “It allows me to combine them into an accurate and usable map for our return journey.” 

The chair shifts suddenly, tipping him backwards, his feet lifting from the ground to dangle in the air. The first eight times she did this, it was disorienting and a mite terrifying, now he doesn’t even flinch. Scarlet sparks in his periphery as Wanda’s hand touches his chin, her fingers strutting up his nose and along his forehead, slowly leaning him farther back until his crown is level with her chest, providing him a lovely view of the broad smile on her face. “Our journey back?”

Vision is confused at how euphoric she seems, “Well, yes, or even if-“ 

“Stop there, don’t ruin it.” Her lips, in conjunction with her plea, silence him with remarkable efficiency, his body overcome with a rush of love that singes away all pessimism whenever she kisses him like this—brazenly and passionately, her powers tinging his sight and thoughts in red while the tickle of her loose hair along his cheek seems to sensitize him to the pressure and movement of her lips. Wanda pulls back far far too soon, a playful peck given to the tip of his nose as she stands back up. “Are your feet cold?”

The rapid turnaround in thinking borders on whiplash, his neck craning to see the navy wool on his feet. He had forgotten about that failure. “It is a new fashion I am experimenting with.” 

Her laugh explodes in the air around him, bathing him in the pleasure of victory. “It is a, uh, strong statement.”

“I do think it is striking enough that it may come inL .”

“It lacks a bit of refinement.” Vision closes his eyes at the feel of her fingers running through his hair. “Might need to add in a top hat.”

The mere image of this outfit, or really lack of one, is amusing, in a purely hypothetical sense given any individual who attempted to walk down the street would be immediately arrested for lewd indecencies. Typically such stark and silly differences between reality and hypotheticals are not of interest to him, yet bantering with Wanda seems to erase all need for remaining in line with reality. “It is quite unfortunate I am a taken man since it sounds like a proper tot-huntingM outfit.”

“Oh,” Wanda stops combing through his hair, her breath light against his ear as she leans down, “but we’re not married yet.” This causes him to open his eyes, take in the impishness flickering in his lover’s gaze. “Maybe,” her powers come up through the chair to wrap up and around him, “you can try it out tonight?” In less than a second the mood lessens with reality, “As long as your hip is doing okay.”

The semantics of pain are vague, one person’s bothering or okay markedly different from another. Even for himself, situationally the same pain can be radically different. Earlier it was too much to take off his socks, but right now, under her adoring and concerned gaze, it is a stray thought loosely flying through his mind despite logically knowing there is no reduction in physiological difficulty and thus no backing to willfully act to aggravate the issue further. The mind and the heart, he has discovered, do not always have to agree. “It would be a shame to not fully utilize having our own room and,” the hunger inching into her smile seems to dam up his pain perception, “I just so happened to bring the top hat in with the luggage.”

“We should finish up then.”

“Yes, but,” a tiny ounce of self preservation kicks in, “I do request this time be tamer than our, um,” his voice quiets at the indecorousness of the event in question, “dalliance in the barn as I do believe that may have been the impetus of the issues with my hip.”

Wanda nods in understanding while bringing a bowl of water up towards his brow, “I’ll be gentle and you need to be honest if something hurts.” 

“That is amenable to me.” 

The rush of water over his ears and the anticipation of what is to come drowns out all of his doubts and worries. Whoever he may be now, he is a man utterly in love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorian Language and Culture Decoder 
> 
> AThe Lyons-Council Bluff railroad is annoying. I have accumulated a folder on my computer of over a dozen maps of the US in the 1850s. About half are of the New York region at that time and the other half are travel maps showing railroads, wagon trails, steamboat trails, etc across North America. I have 4 maps of Iowa between 1848-1853. Two had this railroad and two didn’t and it drove me crazy. I didn’t find out about the lack of the Lyons-Council Bluff line in October 1853 until I found a secondhand account of a son writing about his father’s experience helping to lay the stakes for this line in 1853 and that the rail wasn’t actually put in for another year. Basically, I’m in awe of historians who spend their lives tracking this stuff down. It’s exhausting.  
> B Korea was called Joseon during this time period  
> C Rational dress: women who wear pants  
> D Even though I have a map of Council Bluffs from 1853 with the names of the hotels, I could not find anything about either the Robinson or City Hotel, so I cannot attest that the City Hotel was better. It just looked bigger on the map. Also the prices are based on hotel advertisements I found for other, similarly sized towns at the time. The main hotel of the town was actually the Pacific House but it wasn’t finished until December 1853. It was magnificent though, from all I’ve read.  
> E Morbsy: melancholic  
> F Bricky: brave or fearless  
> G Spoony: being a fool in love or sentimental  
> G Dying duck in a thunderstorm: unattractive, miserable  
> H A naiad is a river spirit. This is a nod to one of my all time favorite books - To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis. This book was a large influence on some key aspects in setting up this AU including them meeting at the river (with Wanda being soaking wet), having a seance as a centerpiece for part I of AOS, and a lot of background on spiritualism in Victorian times. It’s a fantastic book, if you ever are looking for a Sci-fi/time travel/historical rom-com/mystery novel.  
> I Gas pipes: pants  
> J Quite a dizzy: a clever man  
> K Wooden spoon: an idiot. It does actually come from taking a mathematics test, only it was at Cambridge, not University of London. It was a literal wooden spoon (that got bigger and bigger each year) given to the lowest score of the student graduating with honors. It does seem like many places took on the practice, so figured why not include it. This practice no longer exists.  
> L Come in: become fashionable  
> M Tot-hunting: On the prowl for eligible young women
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it and are ready for more! Given life at the moment, the hope is for monthly updates. 
> 
> Kudos and/or comments are always appreciated. 
> 
> I hope you have a wonderful day!


	2. In which a grave is dug and life is redefined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unassuming day leads to an existential crisis for Vision, one that forces him to re-examine and redefine what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: Though it was intended to be as heavily discussed, this story will touch on thoughts of mortality and death. It seems hard to write from Vision's perspective on this journey when he knows he is on borrowed time. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

Acrid smoke swirls with the palpable waft of grease sliding from spits into hungry flames, a mixture that envelops Vision as he walks, hands lounging in his trouser pockets. There are fifteen wagons left, comprising what appears to be three separate groupings. Each wagon looks roughly the same—knotty boards forming the base, the ends sloping up and ballooning into off-white canvas covers. It’s akin to watching a fleet of boats skim through the bay. In a way this is accurate, the prairie grass oscillating in pelagic mimicry. 

Based on what Vision has read in pamphlets and heard in saloons and trading posts, this is a popular jumping off point for the wagon trains. Gaggles of people flocking to explore the relative unknown of the territories, some in pursuit of gold, some freedom from poverty and lack of opportunity, and some because there might just be something more out there. Whatever the reason, he feels a kinship with these strangers who are so willing to shed the past and seek a new future.

What he does not feel a kinship towards is the inconsiderate messA. Carefully he sidesteps another pile of luggage, movements slow as to not step on the broken, hand painted tea cups forming a barrier around a lopsided stool. A wagon train left this morning and this is only one carcass of their lives, eight other mounds rise from the ground, each one swarming with scavengers eager to pilfer from another’s discarded life, not once seeming to wonder why the former owners left it all behind.

“Excuse me, fine gentleman?” Vision’s hips turn first, eyes remaining for a half second longer on the broken arm of a doll laying in the grass, and then his upper half follows. “Would a double-breasted water butt-smasherB like yourself fancy to know the secrets of your future?”

His right hand slides from his pocket and finds its way to tug at his earlobe. “I do not, um, think that is an apt description of my, well...” A wave of his hand over his decidedly non-athletic physique finishes the thought.

The fairly clear display seems to be willfully ignored, Wanda’s lips tightening into a pleased line. The action is accentuated by the silk headscarf she wears, the crimson and marigold beads (ones he spent many days threading onto it) framing her delight at throwing him askew. “Just get over here you fine yard-of-pump water.C “

“Wanda,” there is no one within ear shot, yet her brazen disregard for all etiquette both offends his sensibilities and also sends a spark of desire twining through his body, “please.” 

The attempt at admonishment is weak and crushed immediately when she stands and grabs his hand, leading him to a wooden stool. It’s then buried deep in the ground as she leans against his shoulder, lips not far from his ear and accent rougher than usual, her tone sending his heart and mind into a dizzy, “It’s Scarlet.”

“Well, Miss Scarlet,” he makes sure to emphasize her working moniker, enunciation sharp on the _c_ and _t_ , “I do hope you are in my future.”

Her forehead thumps his shoulder, untamed curls tickling his jaw as she shakes her head with an ounce too much drama to be taken seriously. The lack of annoyance is confirmed once she moves away to take her seat, only bemusement left in her unerring gaze. “You do know that is the most overused line by men thinking they’re being clever with me.”

This is not a mystery to him and he admits it is an uninventive and tired quip, but the way she looks when her cheeks develop a subtle glow, fingers picking at the fringe on her shawl, all while her eyes pierce him with disbelief always shields him to embarrassment long enough to (politely) be bold. “And yet it will most certainly be successful.”

“I suppose I can consult the spirits to see what chance you have.” With a wink she easily slips into her spiritualist role. A moderate, swooping dance of her hands accompanies a drop of her voice into a recently practiced monotone, one Helen and Amadeus agreed gives the most otherworldly feel. “Based on what I see in my crystal ball,” which is not a crystal ball but a discolored beaker of Helen’s they charred in a campfire for added, spooky effect and then stood up in a cushion made from one of his socks, “you,” the band of her crescent moon clinks against the beaker as she points at him, “will be in my bed tonight.” 

“Is that so?” 

“The spirits never lie.”

How she keeps a straight face is a mystery to him, especially given he can barely manage it himself. “Can you perhaps explain to me how the spirits are so certain it is I in your bed and not you…” A woman and her daughter walk past as he speaks, eyeing the table with disquisitive mistrust, causing his voice to lower into a stutter, “um in mine?” Vision clears his throat, the reminder of the public nature of this interaction grounding him immediately. “Or well, not that it matters, I suppose, given this whole thing is a farce.”

Wanda is unfazed by the passersby, her attention solely on him. “Just give me your hand and I’ll confirm it.” He complies, tugging his glove off and allowing her to grip his wrist, fingers lackadaisically tracing the lines of his palm. For a fleeting moment he considers asking for a tarot reading, believing it is a bit more intriguing to watch from an outsiders’ perspective given his own curiosity about the process, having only seen the practice from a distance since Wanda never offers it to him. He, however, will not ask nor push her. Even though she has embraced and reclaimed the Scarlet Witch persona, he knows there is far more depth of agony in the title and its consequences than she wishes to face, understandably so. “Was it easy to see me across the way?”

“It was,” an important aspect they’ve discovered in traveling to towns with more open spaces than cramped ones. The more direct sight lines to her table, the more likely people are to get curious. It is why, once they’ve set her up, he will meander the perimeter to check her overall visibility, often weaving between the wagons or railcars or whatever mode of gathering they are near to decipher any poor angles. “I do think the tablecloth needs more panache to truly signal your offerings.”

Wanda seems less certain, albeit not completely against the idea. “What if we added more to the scarf instead?”

The current headdress is not as prominent as the one she used to wear, though it still, to him anyway, is unmistakably a look only a spiritualist would don. Additionally, it creates a rather fetching silhouette when she leaves her hair down, like she has today. “I can see if there are any potential additions when I am at the trading post. Perhaps some feathers?” 

“Worth a try.” Toying with his fingers is not part of a typical reading, something he won’t point out to Wanda since he is not at all bothered by the action and she always carries a certain amount of nervous energy before customers arrive. “When does Helen want you back?”

“Not until one.” He answers her next question before she can ask, since it is the same every time, “I will be sure to stop by before then.”

“Good.”

Their conversation lulls into an amiable calm, her fingers moving haphazardly along his hand while her eyes wander the surroundings. All of this a sham to bring in customers. He even wears one of his nicer suits for it, the hypothesis being that if a man of civility is intrigued enough to seek a reading, then others will feel it is the socially reasonable thing to do. Part of him wonders at the ethics of ushering people towards a practice that is inherently specious while the other part of him knows that the decently accurate (albeit empty) reading does not actually harm the customer, per se, other than maybe a mite more hope or worry or vim, depending on what Wanda tells them. Plus, and this is the most persuasive argument for his involvement, Wanda truly seems to enjoy it now that she has figured out how to avoid amphibious attacks. “What do you think is going on over there?”

“Where?” Vision does his best to turn in the direction of Wanda’s gaze without pulling his hand away and breaking the illusion of their performance. Nothing has changed since he sat down, he thinks, other than a handful of people beginning to edge closer. “It seems you have some curious parties?”

The feel of a phantom hand nudging his chin a bit more to the right would be a curious thing if he had not become so accustomed to Wanda’s powers. He follows the direction and spots the farthest wagon train where there are four fires dotting the ground, each surrounded by people conversing and going through their belongings, likely to determine what to leave behind. “I am not sure I-”

“They’re setting something up” 

There are more seats arranged than is usual, well maybe not more seats but the arrangement is somewhat odd—trunks, boxes, and blankets set up in clear lines. “Perhaps there is a, um,” gala is the first word to come to mind, except that is not the life they are leading now, “a gathering tonight?” 

“Well,” a tug brings him back to face her, “we should come back tonight. I’ve never gotten to see you kick up a shindyD.” 

“That is because I do no such thing.” There are, admittedly, many things he had never done until he met Wanda or thought about doing until she came into his life, her influence a pleasant chaos that leads him down some rather indecorous paths. Lively dancing in public, however, is an embarrassment he will not suffer, even for her. “Nonetheless, I will accompany you if you wish to participate.” 

It is not meant as a challenge, yet she is staring at him with the same lopsided grin and narrowed eyes as when she is about to take the last pair from his hand in a game of Commerce. “Vision,” and this is how she says his name when she is about to hit his ball into the oblivion of grass on their makeshift paille maille course, “we both know that—” her mouth snaps shut and her eyes move to watch something over his shoulder. “Play along now, please.” It seems the onlookers have drawn within earshot. Wanda begins to hum, ramping up the eccentricity of the reading, dragging her nails along the grooves of his palm. “Your life line is branching, a sharp turn towards fortune is in your future, but,” a dangerous, over-the-top edge enters her voice, “you must tread carefully lest you bring about your own ruin.”

Vision is not a thespian, is not even decent at telling lies, so hopefully his words are heard as sincere. “Does this mean I’ll find gold?”

The path of his reading jackknives towards the base of his fingers. “Not just treasures, your heart line curves here,” she rubs the base of his ring finger, “if your heart is open, you will find love as well.”

“Love and fortune?” He tries to sound enthralled and gullible.

Wanda winks at him, a whispered _not bad_ in his mind as she releases his hand, her palm coming to rest over her heart. “Yes, now go,” the people are barely two feet away now, “follow your heart and you will triumph.” 

“I will.” He stands, as quickly as he can manage without wincing, hand diving into his pocket to retrieve a silver dollar. “You have saved my life.” This is sincere, something he tries to convey with a hard stare at his fiancée, gleefully accepting her moony smile. “I must go forth now and seek my fortune.” Compared to the prior statement, this one feels awful in his mouth, an acerbic falsehood tainting his general demeanor. At least it is almost done. The coin (which is near 100 times her going rate) thuds on the table and he slides his palm beneath hers, breaking script to lay a doting kiss to the top of her hand, “Thank you.” 

Wanda’s jaw tightens as she does her best not to break character, her, “Go” vibrating with amusement. He grins at her and grabs his glove, pulling it back on before he walks away, turning after ten feet to see a woman already occupying his old seat and a line forming behind her. 

With the feederE act done, he is free to explore the town, a task Vision finds inherently satisfying, no two places exactly alike. It’s why he never bemoaned when Mr. Stark would send him on wild goose chases to hamlets and towns with varied and often confusing names. Sometimes he would even suggest a new merchant to “investigate” if he discovered a name on a map he was ignorant of. Based on the walk from the hotel to the wagons, there are at least ten unique shops for him to explore and he has already mapped out the most efficient path between them all. 

First, however, he returns to the railcar for his shopping basket. He locks the door, tugging on it several times to be sure it is secure. Satisfied, he turns towards Council Bluffs, ready to discover what it has to offer. 

The granary is the farthest away and most strenuous to get to, located in the old fort on the side of a hill. It is also the quickest, the owner more than happy to deliver fifteen bags of flour to their hotel this afternoon. At the bottom of the hill Vision ambles into Royal Amy’sF, flanked by muskets and pistols but only interested in finding a suitable combustible to help start fires in wet conditions. The Robinson Hotel has a side business of selling excellent dried venison, or so he overheard at breakfast. He buys a few bags and determines, based solely on the lobby, which he knows isn’t fully fair, that they chose the correct accommodations. It’s on his stroll to Harle’s Hall that a realization creeps into his mind. A minute glance over his shoulder confirms what he suspected, spotting the same bearded face roughly fifteen feet behind him that has been fifteen feet behind him since he left Wanda. Granted this is a small town, albeit one inundated with transient visitors which should reduce the probability of being followed...unless someone else has deduced the same logical shopping route. That thread of reassurance is frayed since the man hasn’t once gone into the stores to purchase goods. 

There are two other experiences Vision can find equivalent to now. After he was known to be the butler of the Stark Estate, it was not an uncommon occurrence to be cornered by Mr. Stark’s jilted business partners or lovers, sometimes it was individuals with grand ideas that needed financing, and other times it was mothers looking to climb the social ladder who believed Vision would be a suitable candidate for their daughters in the hopes their daughters would then seduce Mr. Stark. Only no one here knows who he is and it leaves the other, far more insidious experience. Vision shoves the thought away, arm curling tighter to trap the basket against his side, determined to remain calm and logical. 

This determination is short lived. While he’s in Harle’s his eyes betray him, sliding every so often to the windows at the front where the man stands talking with a group of people, angled perfectly to see the front door. Then Vision’s body, against his wishes, defects from rationality, a cold sweat breaking on his forehead at the memories he tries so hard to keep at bay lest he inadvertently forces Wanda to relive their capture, something she already experiences at least one night a week while she sleeps...as does he. 

Vision scans the room, recalling the instructions Natasha once gave him on evasion after a particularly overzealous mother pressured him into a six hour tea where he met all eight of her daughters. The lessons emphasized the need for alternative exits, a tactic that he, as a butler for a man with questionable morals, had already discovered though clearly had issues fully utilizing. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Yes?” The store owner smiles amicably at him. 

“Is there a second exit?”

The friendliness slides from the man’s face, replaced by befuddlement. “Er, yes, back left corner’s where they deliver the goods.”

“Thank you.” Vision pays for the balms and ointments, eager to escape while still ensuring he remains cordial so as not to leave a poor impression. “You have a lovely establishment.”

Past the soaps and bandages, wedged between a shelf of loose teas and a display of elixirs, Vision bends to exit through the small delivery door, finding himself in a grove of pine trees that insist on latching onto the threads of his jacket as he struggles through their alpine embrace. 

It appears he has successfully navigated off the main road, a small dirt path separating him from the field of wagons. Given the rest of the shops are on Broadway, it seems like the majority of his perusing will have to wait, except, however, the trading post which is situated on the outskirts of town near the railcar. Luckily for him, it also happens to be the most important stop of the day and isn’t terribly far, perhaps a quarter mile. 

Vision glances around, checking for untoward eyes, and walks as swiftly and casually as he can without overexerting himself, worried if he stumbles or shows signs of his ailments that he will be perceived as an even easier mark. In a sense, being on this dirt path allays his worries of kidnapping while in another sense the lack of bystanders and witnesses make the ease of absconding with him that much more proficient. He tries not to consider this option, instead forcing himself to think about the target destination. For instance, earlier today the owner at Amy’s explained how the trading post is one of the few log-based structures in Council Bluffs, the majority of the houses and buildings either stone or sod. It also stands alone, a sturdy structure framed by the emptiness of the fields beyond, the first thing all travelers see when they arrive. Or the last, depending on the direction of travel, and for him, at the moment, it arises as the solitary structure leading him out of town. 

Successful in reaching the building, Vision enters and assesses the room, relieved when he only sees a mustachioed man at the counter. Adding to his comfort is that the inside is almost identical to every other trading post in the last three weeks. All the shelves are packed so tightly with an array of items it is hard to decipher the logic of their placement, assuming there is logic in putting oil for lamps immediately next to bags of cornmeal. All Vision can imagine is how a bump of an elbow would knock the oil over and how it would then soak into the bag of food. Once it dries, would anyone be the wiser?

He decides to skip the cornmeal and wait to grab his oil until the end. On his journey towards the maps he collects their typical victuals: rice, coffee, fermented fish (not Vision’s preference but it does last long), dried apples, jarred beans, and hardtack biscuits. He grabs a new cast iron kettle, Amadeus accidentally losing theirs down a river, a few more mugs, and a collection of sturdier cooking utensils. The next shelf is stacked high with beaver pelts, just as expensive as all other stops so far. Vision runs a gloved hand along the fur, trying to convince himself the money spent will be worth it now that the weather is beginning to bite. 

“Mornin’ Francis!”

Vision glances up at the newcomer and his blood freezes. Slowly he backs away from the pelt table and towards the corner with the axes and goads. All his life he has believed in the goodness of mankind, and mostly he has been proven correct, except his body aches at the memory of the evil that brought him here, that is forcing him to travel to Seoul. His hand wraps around the wooden handle of a goad, sliding it off the hook on the wall and keeping it close at his side. Natasha would be so proud of him and the thought is a little sickening.

Armed and on edge, he shuffles his way towards the table of maps, half heartedly sifting through them while keeping his attention on the men speaking at the counter. He notices a hefty book labeled _The Emmigrant’s Guide to Oregon and California_ and scoops it up, gently placing the goad against the wall so he can open the guidebook. 

“Howdy.”

Vision flinches at the voice, dropping the book at the sight of the bearded man grinning up at him. “I am not interested.”

The grin intensifies. “I imagine you might be interested in knowin’ that guide‘s barking at a knotG.” Somehow Vision resists looking down at the discarded guide, knowing from Natasha’s lessons, and his own experience, to never remove his eyes from an enemy. “You the fella with the afternoonifiedH railcar?”

It’s phrased as a question and stated as a fact. “I, um, yes, I am.” He could deny it but he is not a gifted liar. 

“Where ya goin’ with it?”

“San Francisco.” Instantly he realizes the mistake. He should have said somewhere that is not their actual destination just as he should have told mothers he was taken and Mr. Stark’s jilted lovers and business partners that they deserved better. 

The man whistles in response, scratching the back of his neck. “So you, the lad, and the two AngelicasI are plannin’ to go all the way to San Fran in that?”

The danger of the situation fades into a stubbornness he developed when working in the factories, never one to take lightly the gall of people who question every decision without proper facts or documentation. They have planned this trip, they have survived this long, the graves this man’s voice is digging for them is unacceptable. Vision stands taller, towering over the stranger as he grabs the _Emmigrant’s Guide_. “Yes we are. Now please, I need to purchase my goods and be on my way.” The man lifts his hands in mock apology, stepping away from Vision. 

He makes it four steps before he’s held hostage all over again. “You want to lead them to their deaths with that fallacy,” the man’s dirt encrusted finger is pointed at the book, “have at it. Lansford never updated the map in there after the first publication.” Natasha’s protocol is broken by Vision’s eyes darting down. The name on the front of the guidebook is L. W. HastingsJ _._ “The rest of it’s decently useful,” something that seems to be painfully admitted, “but the map’s bound to put ya’ll in a bad boxK. So if you want to walk away from someone’s been on that trail dozens o’ times and rely on an almost decade old map, go right ahead.”

If Helen or Wanda were here, they’d likely urge him to leave, but the guilt that he tries to keep suppressed, the knowledge that he is the sole reason for this journey, that he has single handedly put the woman he loves and his dear friends into numerous precarious situations already, weighs so heavily on him that he can’t seem to move his feet and can’t take his eyes off the guidebook in his hands. The man picks up on the hesitation, shifting his demeanor from a soothsayer of doom to a gentle friend. “Wanna see my map? Update it every journey.”

Maps are not evil nor suspicious nor likely to kidnap and torture him. If he treats this as reconnaissance to figure out the correct path, would that not be preferable to ignorance? “I would.”

From the depths of four layers of unmatched clothing the man pulls out a weathered, chicory-colored leather bundle. Lovingly he unfolds it, revealing a map that sends a spark of awe and a whip of jealousy into Vision’s chest. It is handmade, similar to the ones Vision has been constructing, only there is so much more, or so he thinks, the legend and all markings in symbols he vaguely recognizes. “I been on these trails dozens o’ times.” Enraptured, Vision moves closer, bending down to watch the man show him their forthcoming journey all while opening the guidebook’s map and comparing them. “Y’all will have an easy time across the prairies, some good buffalo hunting here,” the brown smudges are apparently buffalo herds, dotting the map in various places, sometimes close to the thick black trail and sometimes a fair distance away. This is not information available in the book. “Then you reach Fort Laramie. Good place to stock up before the mountains. Happen to fall in love, it’s one o’ the few magistrates on the trail.” 

“Are there not weddings on the trail?” The plan, as of now, is to wait until they are in Seoul to get married, allowing their marriage to start with hope (and health) instead of being shrouded in uncertainty. It is also the latest Wanda is willing to consider despite their promise to Mr. Stark. But Vision had also assumed, based on sensationalized stories shared in the newspapers, that weddings were common on the frontier and easily coordinated if spontaneity suddenly befell them, at least it is what he conceded to Wanda the last time they had a fraught conversation on the topic back in Springfield. 

“If you want it legal, gotta have a magistrate, and they ain’t readily available, see,” now Vision understands the faded heart symbols on the map (yet another difference with his own), only three of them falling along their path. “That ain’t your big concern, really, after Laramie is the first mountain pass, it ain’t bad in pleasant weather, but it ain’t easy either. Break a wheel or lose an oxen, you best hope you get out before the snow.” 

Vision listens in increasingly abysmal despair as the man walks him through the path—raging rivers, deserts where people freeze to death in their sleep, stampedes of buffalo, thunderstorms with lethal hail and whipping winds, dysentery, cholera, starvation, dehydration, wild predators, getting crushed by other wagons, and the crowning bit, “Y’all lookin’ to hit the Sierra Nevadas right around the time the Donner Party did who, by the way, used Lansford’s little guide.”

Even in New York, the morbid, cautionary tale of the Donner Party was brought up at any mention of the pioneers. “Is there another path?”

“Re-route here,” the name is illegible in the secret code the man uses, “go south to the Sonoran. It’s a pretty big desert so gotta hope it ain’t too cold or ya don’t run out of food and water but ya avoid the mountains leastways.”

Vision already knows his functioning diminishes greatly in the winter, every joint with metal seizing into a deathlike rigor when the temperatures drop too low. Adding to this the constant concern of freezing to death, or starving to death, or developing infections and illnesses, or being crushed by other travelers, or shot because you’ve been mistaken for an elk, or attacked by bears, wolves, coyotes, or mountain lions, and he feels himself questioning every choice they made concerning this journey. Had they known all of this, would traveling to Seoul have been a solution? If they were not so pressed for time would they have more fully investigated the paths? Should they have delayed long enough to send out messages about the condition of the railroad? The growing list of should haves are irrelevant now, the past impossible to rectify and so he must do as he always does and try not to let himself fall prey to the cruel, illogical entity of his pastself’s ignorance kicking up a shindy with hopeful, rushed desperation. There is only the future now and he intends to make a reasoned decision. “How much longer would that route take?”

The man shrugs, scratching his bearded chin as he calculates, “Prolly two, three more months.”

Vision struggles not to allow himself to slip into the grave this man already so kindly dug him. “How long is the journey if we took the mountains?”

“Total from here?” 

“Yes.”

“Just you and the three?”

“Yes.”

“In that fancy railcar?”

“Yes.”

The map is folded up as the man thinks, sliding back into the depths of his clothing when his answer is ready. “Five, six months.” The grave grows deep enough for all of them. “But you trade it in for a schooner and some oxen, get a good guide, and hit all the best weather, four months, three and a half if y’all are of the first waterL.” 

Without Wanda’s powers, it is useless to assess the trustworthiness of the estimate. Men with a business accept a certain level of dishonesty to get compliance from customers. “Thank you for your time and the informative discussion.”

“Listen,” the man leans to the left, blocking Vision’s exit, “you can talk to all the other guides ‘round and all they can give ya is a lick and a promiseM. I’m the only one can say I ain’t ever lost a soul on the trail.” 

A large, unsubstantiated claim. “I must discuss everything with my party.” 

Nonplussed is the general air of this man. “Well, when ya’ll decide, you can find me in the Ocean Wave. Ask for Phillip.” He tips his wide-brimmed hat towards Vision. “Don’t forget yer goad.”

In a haze, Vision picks up the goad, the _Emmigrant’s Guide_ , and four pelts. The price registers enough in his consciousness for him to pay and then he returns to the railcar. He removes each item individually from the basket and places it in the appropriate location. Once the basket is empty he sits down, hand diving into the front pocket of his waistcoat. A small _click_ and he confirms it is a quarter to one, just enough time to check on Wanda and then return to the hotel. 

Except he can’t seem to find the energy to stand, drowning in the images of the trials ahead. Vision drops the pocket watch back into place and then grabs the bundle of papers from his inner coat pocket. 

Just underneath the third paragraph of his draft letter he allows his thoughts to seep into the parchment, awaiting this evening when he will have time to contemplate it all. 

_I am beginning to think we have made a grave mistake._

He wipes the pen tip, blows three times on the statement, and then folds it up. There is nothing that can be done immediately and wallowing his way into tardiness is never an option. 

Vision stands and does what he has always done the entirety of his life; he moves on to the next task.   
  


“Lift your right arm.” Vision complies, muscles constricting around the immutable vibranium until it leaves his arm hovering as if reaching for someone walking away. Dr. Cho measures the space created by the action. “Bend your elbow.” The grinding of the hinge is felt far more than audition allows, regardless, Dr. Cho’s nose scrunches at what he hoped was a silent struggle. “Straighten it back out and then rotate your wrist.” Vision does this easily, relief swirling along with the movements. “Good.”

His arm drops back to his side, fingers drumming noiselessly against the thin layer of cotton on his thigh, always on edge under such observational scrutiny, Helen’s discerning gaze and muted writing amplifying the feeling of dissimilitude between his flesh and inhuman parts. “Left arm.” They repeat the process, his arm lifting, Helen measuring and then writing her observations, a bend of his elbow (this one is more compliant than the last), a twist of his wrist, and then he stands still, awaiting either a comment or a new direction. “You’ve lost almost four degrees in both arms.”

That cannot be accurate. “Are you certain? Only my right felt any resistance.” 

The clinical mask slips for a moment, compassion radiating in a way that should be more soothing than worrisome, only it’s not. “Your right elbow is inferior to the left, but,” she places her notebook on the desk before gently coaxing his arms back up into his full wingspan (well, a lesser version than what he can ideally attain). “The joints are good over here,” her fingers tap his left elbow hinge and then the ball socket of his shoulder, “but you’re losing movement,” she steps behind him, an impersonal touch outlining the plate traversing the entirety of his upper back, “here.”

It wasn’t until he found his body failing that Vision paid any mind to the intricate dance of his musculature and how one malfunction could ripple so far. Perhaps he is being disingenuous to his younger self, there were times he’d get injured at the factory (however rare it was, his precision and precautions were always taken to the book) and find the effects of the injury were not isolated. Only those healed and could be easily forgotten. “What is the total loss so far?”

The numbers of his life are scrutinized, the tip of her pen wiggling in the air as she calculates. “It seems typical of your month and a half progression.” Which is worse than he suspected. “But we need to assess everything before reaching conclusions.” Helen moves out of sight, her hand coming to rest on his lower back. “Try to touch your toes.” A physical impossibility, his fingers dangling uselessly around his shins due to the stubbornness of the exoskeleton. “Hold it there for a moment.” He does, even as the telltale pain of his abdominal plates pinching skin becomes borderline unbearable. “Stand back up and rest for a moment.”

“That was worse.”

There is no denial in her silent scribbling. “Did you and Wanda find a good spot this morning?” It must be a troubling number for such a diversion.

“We did. When I stopped by on the way here she still had a line.”

A small, facetious curve breaks Helen’s scientific façade. “I have a hypothesis that the more uncertain the environment, the more superstitious people become.”

A fair prediction, one he has noticed as well, particularly once they began coming into more frequent contact with settlers gearing up for the West. “It does appear hope of any kind is in higher demand the farther we proceed.”

“Can you lift your arms over your head and bend to the right?” The bolts of his left hip react harshly and he clenches his teeth to smother any reaction, not wanting to cause more alarm than is needed. “Maybe we’ll all need Wanda’s readings by the end of our trip.”

The groan building in his chest is transferred into a brief snort at the thought of abandoning science in such a way. “That,” it’s hard to speak at this angle, the vibranium weighing heavily on his right lung, “would be a troubling development.”

“It would. Stand up.”

Vision’s body happily settles back into place, the residual pain dissipating with thoughts of what it would take for them to wholeheartedly follow spiritualism, particularly when their resident purveyor is not even a believer. Likely the same things that spur other travelers—unexplainable storms and diseases, dangerous crossings and the nigh constant concern of death. “I was approached by a trail guide today.”

“Oh?”

A nudge encourages him to bend to the left this time. “Yes, at the trading post,” momentarily he considers sharing the being followed part, but decides it is not pertinent. “He walked me through our journey. Did you know we have to cross a desert?”

“I don’t remember one on the map. Put your hand on the wall.” 

He does, mind still focused on the harsh terrain ahead. “Apparently there is one.” It was the unmarked opening on the map they consulted at Stark Tower, an area they all thought to be a valley or prairie. “And we will be crossing the last mountain pass at a precarious time.”

“How is it any more precarious than what we already assumed?”

A fair question. It’s not as if they hadn’t studied any maps before leaving, except there is a major difference in observing triangles on parchment and the reality of traversing the steep slopes under the threat of winter. “Well…”

“Lift your right leg and bend the knee.” 

There is little discomfort in the action other than trying to remain balanced on his other leg. “We will be arriving right before the snowy season.”

The lack of any response beyond a slight rise to her eyebrows makes him realize he may need to better convey the direness of what he learned, certain she will have a similar reaction to himself. “Did you know we will reach the mountain at the same time the Donner Party did?”

“I did not.” This information drags her lips down into contemplation, a half second of thought and then it slips away, appearing to not be worth much at the moment. “Switch to your other leg.”

“Of course. Apparently—” with a single lift of his left knee the words crash into an uncontainable groan and an outbreak of sweat across the entirety of his chest. Typically he uses a certain level of mindfulness in preparing for a move that will aggravate whatever part of his body is currently rebelling. It seems he was too intent on conversing, too intent on proving the direness they all overlooked, that he forgot to do so, breath still trapped in his chest and body shaking when Helen wraps an arm around his waist and guides him to the bed. Gently she eases him down until he is laying on his right side.

With medical precision and formality she unbuttons the outer seam of his drawers, ones specially made by Tony to provide maximum modesty while also leaving the steel fasteners available. “I need you to breathe.” Shallow inhales are followed by harsh exhales as she lightly prods at his hip, each touch sending stabbing pains up his torso and down his leg. “Vision,” another push, this time with her whole hand, and he gasps, droplets forming along his eyelids, “this is worse than you implied.”

Vision closes his eyes to block out the physical pain and the searing embarrassment of minimizing the truth of his injury, a tendency that should be added to his running list of flaws, right between a predilection for dour self-reflection and being overly detail oriented. 

He doesn’t see her leave the room, too focused on shutting the world out of view, but he can hear the creak of the door and a muffled conversation in the hallway. Several minutes later there are footfalls and then a quilt is gingerly tucked around him. “Amadeus is retrieving Wanda.” A contingency that was agreed upon before they ever left New York, one that does not bode well for his prognosis. “I want to try a direct injection into your hip.”

“I thought you had decided it was too risky.”

“That was when you hadn’t started showing signs of infection yet.” 

The implications hang over the bed like a noose. There are only so many rivets, only so much medicine, only so much time. Every decision has to be made with the knowledge of the consequences. If they merely ignore the blooming infection and change the parts, it will do nothing to slow the spread of illness to his blood. This they know for a fact, many years of painful experimentation confirmed the treatment must be twofold: replacement and the intravenous conveyance of his medicine. But if they use the medicine in this unproved fashion and it fails, it cannot be synthesized again. If he then develops a worse infection later (a guarantee, from his experience), it will have to be treated with a smaller dosage than likely required. Amadeus has been hard at work learning the properties of all the herbs and plants on their path, but as of yet, he and Helen have not produced anything more promising than an ointment that soothes the ache in Vision’s muscles and is also used by all of them for sore feet. 

The ups and downs of his life are never more pronounced than in moments like now. Less than seven hours ago he walked down the road with Wanda on his arm, nary a hitch to his steps nor worry in his thoughts. All onlookers saw was a young man of decent standing ostensibly at the prime of his life. And then slowly the façade chipped away, the worries returned, the pain amplified, he hasn’t breathed correctly since walking up the hill to the granary and now, well now it is once more a bag of nailsN. This cyclical pattern is a sad truth of his existence over the last five years and it forces him to wonder why he tries so hard to believe Wanda’s affirmations or Helen’s scientific proofs of his humanity when, in reality, his body is more similar to the piles of discarded luggage and unneeded tea cups.

“I think it will work.”

The hand rubbing this belief into his back is not of the medical doctor but of his friend, a bond that formed primarily through the exchange of letters and has transformed into a foundational sense of calm in his daily life since they met once again. For the first time in the five years they have known each other, he believes she is being illogically optimistic, particularly when she has always been the one he relies on to share his realistic outlooks on his health. It's under her auspice that he allows all his worries to tiptoe from his lips, “I doubt my ability to reach your lab.” 

“I know.” It starts as a comforting confirmation he is not incorrect in his assessment and is what he would expect from seeking her advice, except she takes it a step further “we all know.” Helen’s hand stops, caught between his shoulder blades, “Vision,” what usually comes next when she says his name like this is a reasoned, logical breakdown of why his thoughts, though valid, are more harmful than useful if he ruminates on them for too long, “without making reasoned adjustments, I also worry you won’t make it.” Chastisement, however heavily layered with concern, isn’t what he expected. “What is Newton’s third law?”

It comes out without thought, “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

“Exactly. Every action you take influences your well-being.” 

Helen is his equal and (more often) superior in many ways, least of all is her practical approach to rationality and conversation, making the vagueness of this comment especially aggravating. “What are referring to, specifically?”

The circular motion of her hand is no longer a salve, each revolution rubbing the meaning of her answer deep into his soul like a stain that grows bigger the more you try to wash it out. “You insist on helping us with everything even though it is detrimental to you.” This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation but it is the most severe her tone has been. “If you continue to physically push yourself like that, under Newtonian laws, the friction of the exoskeleton on the steel will lead to a quicker deterioration.”

Physics has never been volleyed against him like this and, under the weight of the sciences he so dearly admires and practices, he struggles to counteract the claim, forced to rely on immediate emotional concerns. “I do not want to be a coffee boilerO.”

“You do realize the only reason any of us are on this path is to save your life?” Something he has never failed to recognize. If not for needing the cradle, Wanda would be safe in Normanskill and Helen and Amadeus would be on a well-furnished boat sailing through warmer waters. It is a thread of contemplation he has almost daily.

“I know.”

The bed sinks beneath him as she leaves it, re-emerging with a chair and situating it right in front of his face. She sits down, face serious and determined. “And the only reason we want to save your life is because you are worth saving.” A lengthy pause and hard stare forces him to accept her words. “A desert won’t stop us.”

“There are also mountains.”

Helen bends forward, elbows on her knees and chin resting in the nest of her hands. “It is a well-established belief in the Joseon scientific community that altitude is good for one’s health.” His lips tilt slightly in half-hearted appreciation of her attempt. “You can make it, but only if you stop physically helping us all the time.”

Any positivity of altitude is lost at the command. “Helen, I…” In every great hurdle in his life, helping has always been the very thing that has protected him. Whether it was fixing a threshing machine to allow his mother to hire less farmhands, or learning to mend broken axles and belts in the factories, or spending long hours doing extra research at university, it centered him. After the fire, he refused every offer of financial aid and firmly denied the insisted arrangement that he simply live as Mr. Stark’s ward. He needed a purpose and so he informed Mr. Stark that without gainful employment, he would rather fend for himself. Butlering then inoculated him from the worst of his despair. It filled his day and mind with lists of what he must do, of what came next, never allowing him to dwell too deeply on anything beyond an hour or two away. And now, on this journey, it’s been small duties such as restocking their supplies and caring for the horses, fixing their railcar, rearranging their belongings to provide more space, or building a fire to make tea for Wanda when she’s cold, that have helped keep him functioning. Without the menial, he spirals into a feeling of suffocating nothingness. “I can’t.”

“We’re aware.” Severity has turned into a frustrated gaiety. “The other night Wanda suggested we just tie you to one of the seats.”

A suggestion she has made to him as well, though hopefully the contextual underpinning was very different when she made it to Helen. Regardless, it is a preposterous thought, just like asking him to shrug off such an integral mantle of his existence as helping. “There are just so many difficulties ahead for me to sit and watch.”

Helen shrugs, acting like this is as trivial as deciding between pickled herring or halibut, both tasting the same in the noxious liquid. “I only said physically. You can still navigate, and strategize, and provide company to the overnighters.” All things he never categorized as menial tasks, viewing them instead as interpersonal and often intellectual jobs that are simply enjoyable. “Amadeus still wants you to learn Sokovian with him, he says it makes him look better,” somehow a snigger breaks through his melancholy, the young man more competitive than anyone he has ever met and, unfortunately, far better at languages than himself. “You won’t be a coffee boiler and you won’t just sit idly.” Clearly this conversation has been planned for some time, by all of his companions. Helen’s words are sure and lack any hesitation, even down to the precise lightness she imbues her voice with as she reassures him. “It’s not like we are asking you to do nothing ever again. We just want you to choose how best to use your energy and time, and personally, I don’t think it should be doing chores.”

If there is merit to the suggestion, he needs time to consolidate his thoughts on it and weigh every positive and negative aspect of this change in activity, hence why he diverts away from it, asking the question she hasn’t fully answered. “What is the prognosis based on total loss so far?” 

“As long as this injection works and nothing major happens to hasten the decay, it is my medical opinion that we should have at least another five months.”

A desert flanked by mountains fills his mind, his worries flurrying to obscure the path. “And what if five months is not a feasible timeline for travel?”

“Then it’s not feasible.” It’s said with an unperturbed air, like it is a struggle for a future Helen to consider, one that, in five months, is lost in the snowy mountains. Her fingers grip his shoulder, squeezing it as she enters into a conversation they have had on numerous occasions since he first sustained his injuries. “Death is biological. It is a process every living being experiences.” A phrase she wrote him in the second letter they exchanged, one that was more comforting four years ago than it is now. “If we can’t make the trip in under five months then yes, you will die and,” this is the first hitch in her voice, the first indication that they may have veered away from any pre-planned words, “we all will be shattered by your passing.” The shards of their grief embed into his heart, twisting deeper to nullify the thoughts he uses to comfort his own worries, the certainty he has that they are strong and will be fine, that their lives will move on. Except the tears she’s already shedding for him while he is alive suggest otherwise, just as Wanda’s anger each time he tries to speak of this informs him, very clearly, that he is stepping into imbecilic territory for the sake of his own mental comfort. “Science won’t stop death, superstition won’t stop it, whether it's a slow and foreseen or quick and unsuspecting, it will happen to all of us.” How she can smile so gently in the face of unrelenting fate is beyond him. “I, however, will do everything I can to delay it as long as you promise me something.”

Guilt urges him to accept her request before he’s had time to fully think it through. “I will try to stop helping—”

She chuckles, shaking away his attempt to read her mind. “Two promises then. Will you forgive the quotidian nature of my next statements?”

Vision provides a puzzled, “You are forgiven.”

“You have planned everything for your death,” a truth he cannot refute, he even has instructions of what to do for every state and territory based on the local laws, “so, Vision,” he shakes away the morbid thoughts and looks intently at her, breath bated for what he has to promise, “now it’s time you accomplish the only thing anyone truly needs to do before biological inevitability.”

There are very many things he wishes to do before he dies, how a woman of her intellectual standing can boil her own accomplishments and goals into one unit is curious. “That would be?”

“You have to live, Vision.” When he opens his mouth to inquire further, Helen answers. “Only you can determine what that means within the bounds of your abilities.”

It is perhaps the least scientific phrase he has ever heard her utter and it is quotidian...and yet it affects him more than Newton did, leaving his mind in a haze of what precisely she means or how one is supposed to operationalize living. Before he can delve into these thoughts, the door to the room opens, abruptly ending their conversation and pulling Helen away.

Wanda’s concerned face comes into view, her hair engulfing him as she bends to kiss his forehead. “How are you doing?”

A question he is not capable of articulating an intelligible answer to at the moment, so he settles for the basics of his current state. “I have been far better.”

The corners of her mouth curve upwards, “And far worse as well.”

How he can smile right now is a testament to Wanda’s empathy and social abilities. “I suppose so.” He reaches out and grips her hand, bringing it to his lips and shoving down all doubts and uncertainties from his mind before she reaches out to him, like she always does. “Unfortunately, it seems I will not be able to kick a shindy tonight.”

The roll of her green eyes is a sight to behold, filling him with an immense gratitude that he gets to see it so often. “If you didn’t want to go, you could have just said no instead of going through all this.” Vision wants to insist that, even if she is joking, he did want to go, and in this second, he realizes he even truly did wish to dance with her, regardless of public scrutiny. She settles onto the bed next to him, her hips pressed into his stomach, allowing him to wrap his arms around her and bury his face into her skirt. “Maybe next time.”

Vaguely he is conscious of the sounds of Helen and Amadeus laying out the supplies needed, can even catch a whiff of the iodine, but he lets it all fade away as Wanda draws her hand along his cheek. “Want to know what they were setting up?”

“I do.”

“You were close.” The soothing dance of her fingers on his face stop for a millisecond, resuming with a more hesitant rhythm as she finishes her thought. “It was a wedding.” 

Vision does his best to glance up at her, his thoughts realigning. Living is a fickle thing, filled with highs and lows; for some, like himself and Wanda, far more ravines than mountains. But as he feels the expectant, slightly nervous anticipation in her body, he realizes that there are some things not worth risking, that if he bypasses a long day of collecting supplies, it means he can spend one more evening wandering the fields with Wanda, or an afternoon playing paille maille, or an indecorous dusk in a barn. Admittedly he has never been one to be selfish, always putting others needs before himself, and he has done that already, everything is planned that can be planned for the inevitable. Life is finite and maybe, just maybe, he needs to do what Wanda has always urged him to since the day they met – decide exactly what he wants and unapologetically pursue it. 

Vision kisses her side as the definition of what he wants the remainder of his life to be solidifies in his mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorian Language and Culture Decoder
> 
> AThe Oregon and California trails were littered with people’s broken, old, or unneeded possessions. It was officially known as leeverites (leave ‘ere right here)  
> BDouble-breasted water butt-smasher: a man of athletic build.  
> CYard of pump-water: a tall and lanky man.  
> DKick up a shindy: Dance, cause a raucous. It is a precursor to shindig, but it seems that words wasn’t in US usage until the 1880s.  
> EFeeder act: an actor or actress whose role is meant to feed/help the more important actor or actress.  
> F Here is a map of Council Bluffs in 1853, if anyone is interested. https://www.councilbluffslibrary.org/archive/files/fullsize/f74fe199603fa5cf421f86ec4a65fa0c.jpg  
> G barking at a knot: Useless  
> H afternoonified: Smart  
> I Angelica: an unmarried woman  
> J Lansford W. Hastings: Hastings, or Lansford for those who read too much about him, is one of the biggest names in the Oregon trail. He did write the Emmigrant’s Guide to Oregon and California. He also founded the Hastings Cut-off in Utah which is the route the Donner Party took, though he did not actually recommend people take the route. It actually was only a one sentence suggestion in his book, so don’t blame him for the Donner Party. By 1853 he was either living in California or Arizona (sources are mixed), so he couldn’t be their guide. Next chapter I’ll leave a footnote on good ole Phillip as he is a comic reference.  
> KBad box: a bad predicament  
> L Of the first water: something or someone that is first-rate or excellent  
> MA lick and a promise: Doing something with minimum effort.  
> NBag of nails: when everything seems to go wrong at once  
> OCoffee boiler: a person who is lazy or shirks their responsibilities
> 
> My apologies this took a bit longer than planned, I got sidetracked with Post Hoc and then the conversation with Helen went through many many many drafts. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Kudos and comments are always appreciated. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this and have a great day!


End file.
